Wild Girl
by gschelt
Summary: "Back when you went to high school – the first time around, not this current stint wearing a teenager's body – girls weren't like this girl." Tess is in for a surprise when her daughter's bandmate corners her. Confusing body-switched femslash. Oneshot.


_**Author's Note:** I feel blessed that I can christen this new category with femslash. I really really like this story, which is hardly modest I suppose since I wrote it, but oh well. I hope the thought process isn't too hard to understand. Please review review review.  
(I own nothing).  
_

* * *

She asks if your mother is home, innocently enough, softly enough, but as you back into the countertop your tongue trips over the denial. _N-no_, she isn't home, and that's a lie. This girl doesn't know that that's who she's speaking to. Who she smiles at conspiratorially (oh this can't be good), who she sidles nearer to, dark eyes unfathomable. You have a bad feeling about this. Your knuckles are white as you clench the countertop, breath coming harsher than you want it to, praying that she can't hear your low pulse reverberating in your bones. You have a bad feeling about this, and isn't it irrational? Maybe. But this girl, this "friend of yours", is too silent. All you know of her is her vocals bouncing around in your garage for two hours every weeknight, and now you can see her dark eyes and her thick, serious lashes; and she's very still and very silent and not the familiar racket in the garage. These unfamiliar freckles crawl on your skin, all over, and you breathe loudly again. You can't help it.

Back when you went to high school – the first time around, not this current stint wearing a teenager's body – girls weren't like this girl. They were blonde, mousy-haired maybe, and they ironed their blouses and smiled often and chose between cheerleading and tennis. Blue-eyed girls, some with braces, modestly applying their mascara in the girls' room at lunch. Things have changed though, because this girl isn't anything like them. Her body looks like the warmest body you've ever seen that you've never touched; from the dark tank top and jeans fitting to her curves, from some kind of frictional spark you think. It's curious, looking at the denim on her hips because you can't help it (girls back then weren't like that, their bodies were not quite shapeless but instead subtle and bland); you think, when did girls get to looking so wild? Not like wild animals, but like thunderstorms or something volatile like that. Since when were girls something to look at, something to wonder about? Since when did girls start rock bands and sing and sing and sing until their throats were _raw_? Since when did girls have dark eyes and lips that curled knowingly? You don't know.

She mentions that you've been acting weird today, softly enough, enigmatically enough, but you forget the words entirely when you catch her lick her lips very delicately. It makes you jump, and sweat condenses on your forehead and you know that yes, you're acting very odd. But you can't explain this jittery unease, your fascination with why on earth this girl is so calm and cool when your alien, foreign heart is hammering from a murky sense of foreboding. The foreboding is _from_ her composure, probably, the vibe you get that she knows something you don't. Or from the way she edges closer, and the flesh of your back presses the square tiles of the counter. Hard formica grooves.

She says _now where did we leave off yesterday_, softly enough, but she doesn't wait for the answer you don't have and takes your waist in her hands. She keeps her eyes (dark, dark eyes) on someplace around your chin, and positions her body (wild, wild body) very slowly so that it's a fraction of an inch from yours, head to toe. It's like when you put your fingers over your skin, though, as close as you can get without touching, and you can still feel your skin gliding over skin because of the tiny hairs and the still, curious concentration of the action. It's like that, and as she breathes very close to your own mouth (but it's not your own mouth, is it), evenly but almost as heavily as you, you might just _snap_ in half over that countertop, you're pressing so hard.

She puts her lips on yours and you've never been so very tense in your life. Your body stiffens unbearably like a thick wire. The foreboding, it's reached a sort of climax where it _cracks_, it's gotten so strong. But present too is the thought that yes, you were right. Something _was_ going to happen, something _did_ happen; by god, something _is_ happening right now. Her lips close upon yours but that hardly even registers for some reason, it's when they _open_ upon yours that a jolt of danger licks up your spine. Your foreboding's come to its fruition, so now it's… what is it, fear? Horror? Shock? _Hunger_? Whatever is, this girl is kissing you; she does this thing, she's doing this thing where her tongue… it's a strange sort of rhythm as you stand stiff and stunned, unsure what to do but so unbearably scattered because she's _very_ good at this. You don't even notice that your hand has snaked its way into her tangled hair, as an anchor for your confusion, maybe, but she notices because she moans into your mouth low and guttural. It's nothing like the singing you've heard from her and nothing like the three sentences she's uttered in this kitchen. And something stirs in your throat too. Just your throat?

You know this is so fucking wrong but your immense shock still hasn't waned, and you're still caught off guard, and your brain still hasn't kicked into gear, and well, you're running off instinct and you can't possibly think about that foreboding that's still drenching your gut. It's too late for that. You make a noise like you make when you taste something good (which you are), that muffled sort of exclamation, and before you can dispel the fear of what's happening here (because that fear is certainly there, it's crushing you against the edge of the counter), you make that sound and furrow your brow like you're not entirely sure just what you're doing and you move your hungry mouth against hers. _And why…_In your mind you're begging for her to stop, you're begging yourself to stop her, you'd give anything to have it end. But you can't, you can't stop yourself from letting her and letting her in. Four eyes are closed and the sound of silence has never been so loud.

Girls were certainly never like this when you were in high school. They never dreamed of kissing like this – fierce, unapologetic, urgent – and certainly never with other girls. But this girl, she doesn't care. And why should she? No one's going to back down from her with her tongue doing these acrobatics, taking yours in hers and plunging through the air, in a spotlight, about to fall and crash and break every single bone in your – yeah, something like that. She is _good_, and bearing down on you like that, breathing so loud (it makes it so fucking hard to think) and teasing your neck and jaw with several slender fingers. You're helpless. You love it. You hate it. You love it. No, you really think you're going to be sick. No, you really… you really don't know. You surely do want it to stop and you surely are terrified but she's surely the best kisser ever upon your lips and the sensation is very surely delicious. You make a sound, a hushed sort of moan from either pleasure or desperate, frustrated anxiety or probably both. She takes that as a signal and sucks on your lower lip and you squirm.

You breathe the word that you hope makes it stop, extracting your mouth from hers. Body still upon body, with your hesitant eyes just inches from hers, it's the strangest proximity you've ever known. Even stranger, this closeness as you catch your breath, than your mouths having met in a wild embrace. You tell her to wait, or maybe yourself to wait, and for some reason you say that instead of to stop right this instant, which you really meant. Maybe _wait_ more perfectly fuses _stop right this instant_ and _why can't I just come right out and tell you to stop._ Your mind is racing, only knowing that you need to stop and claw your way back to sanity. Your eyes, however, are glued to the impossibly smooth surface of the sloping valley of her chest. Damn the fact that you haven't anywhere else to look but into her eyes.

She asks you what's wrong, concerned enough, gently enough, beautiful dark eyes curious and trying to snare yours, but all you can do is shake your head like that's a fulfilling enough answer at all. What's wrong is you've been cornered and kissed by your daughter's best friend, what's wrong is you didn't like it and what's wrong is your stomach growls for more. You want the floor to open and swallow you up, you're trapped still between the countertop and this ridiculously warm body. It looked like the warmest body you'd never touched and now it's the warmest thing to press you like memory foam. You love the hot proximity, the awkward closeness of her breath still on your neck and the pressure of her on you all over like a hot blush on all of your unfamiliar skin. What's wrong? You bow your head and your mind tells you that you have a lot on your mind, _that's_ what's wrong, so just say it stupid, don't just stand there. You croak out the right excuse.

One hand takes yours, limp down at your side, and the other goes back to the cinnamon freckles on your jaw. She tells you she understands, more than gently enough, and even though she truly doesn't and never could, you know she does. You nod and turn pink, feeling the scorching color rush to your cheeks and sting you, still unable to find anywhere else to look but at her smooth, tan chest. There's a heart beating under there, you muse vaguely, and wonder at the pulse driving this unpredictable creature. Surely, when you were yourself a teenager, girls' heartbeats were much more feeble. Your own must have been, but that same heart doesn't beat in you right now. Now you have a different, younger heart pushing blood through you, and you feel that this one's beating a robust tattoo too. It makes you sigh that it, and its courage, is not even yours. You don't even have it in you to face your fear, this girl; or perhaps your fear is being a girl like that yourself. Or perhaps, perhaps you can't even manage to put your finger on why you feel so vitally ill.

You push past her, letting the sensation of her fingers linger just for one sweet moment, and mutter some excuse about the wedding rehearsal. You feel her dark, dark eyes on your back, feel her taking an unconscious step forward in detached concentration after you, and feel as well a flood of relief that when this body has its rightful owner back it can properly slake the thirst of this wild, wild girl.


End file.
